sugar plum
by kathleenfergie
Summary: She sat at the foot of the tall grandfather clock the Weasley family kept on the landing of their staircase. It only chose to work few nights out of the year, and each time Rose would hear it click, she'd paddle her way down the hall and sit, listening to pendulum swing back and forth. The clicks calmed her, chasing her night terrors away. Oneshot.


It was late, and the little girl knew that, as she sat at the foot of the tall grandfather clock the Weasley family kept on the landing of their staircase. It only chose to work few nights out of the year, and each time Rose would hear it click, she'd paddle her way down the hall and sit, listening to pendulum swing back and forth. The clicks calmed her, chasing her night terrors away. Rose didn't like the house they lived in, it was far too big and had too many dark corners where things lurked, according to her Aunt Luna. She would giggle when her aunt would present her with funny smelling charms and all different sorts of odd jewelry. Her mother would find her eventually and scoot her off to bed, but for now, she sat, eyes moving back and forth.

The clock often reminded her of the one she found in her Nutcracker storybooks, with the ominous owl sitting atop. Her clock had no such owl, but it did collect a number of cobwebs. She was often caught drawing nonsense pictures in the collections of dust on the walls and on the floors. Unlike some of her friends, her house had no elves, and so everything wasn't as clean as she'd like it to be. Many things in her giant house went untouched. Especially with the arrival of her younger brother, her parents rarely found time to have leisure. In the sitting room, the piano that was never played had long since gone out of tune and her dreams of dancing ballet to her mother's twinkling notes died fast.

Rose didn't like how much her mother and father had given up just for their work. She always wanted more siblings, more little sisters to dance and sing with, to maybe learn how to play the piano with. But alas, she was six and her brother was four, and she knew her parents were done having more family. Too many bad men and women to put into Azkaban, and too many magical creatures to save. She liked visiting her muggle grandparents, they didn't talk about the history of the Wizarding world and they just let her be a normal little girl.

Normalcy was slowly slipping away, however, as her incidents with accidental magic became more frequent. She didn't like magic, it made her anxious. She liked to knit with her hands, and she liked to wear comfortable muggle clothes and not worry about being the next saviour of the world. So young, and yet, she knew so much. When her parents took her to Diagon Alley, she often stared at the cobblestones instead of the storefronts, not wanting to meet the eyes of the people who looked at her, whispering her mother's identity. It didn't help that her flaming ginger hair made her recognizable as part of the ever-growing Weasley clan. She loved spending time with her Uncle Harry and her cousin, James, but only if they were safely inside the confines of his house. Too many times had she been blinded by the flash of a camera.

Rose fingered the lace hem of the nightgown her grandma, Molly, had sewn for her a few years ago. It was big and warm and she loved it. It made her feel like a ballet princess, the long dress flowing around her legs as she sat on the floor. It's stark white colour stood out against the deep black of her house, only the moonlight illuminating the halls. Hermione had told her that she couldn't wear the same nightgown for her whole life, but Rose was content to wear this one until it was rags. She would eventually ask her grandma to make her a new one.

A draft breezed past her, sending chills down her back. Rose wished she remembered to bring her doll with her, for comfort, but she didn't want the creaky floorboards to wake her mother, a light sleeper after all that she'd lived through. She could hear her father's snores, they reminded her a of motorbike. Hugo had a toy one that revved and blew smoke, before zipping around the living room.

The grandfather clock chimed _one...two...three. _

Not long after she heard the soft falls of her mother's feet, and her quiet voice rang out through the silence.

'Rose, why aren't you in bed?' Hermione asked her daughter, coming down the few steps to the landing where Rose sat. Having mastered a considerable amount of wandless magic, a light charm floated beside her, stinging Rose's eyes.

'The clock started ticking and I couldn't sleep. I had a nightmare again.' She could see her mother's expression soften, and she sat next to her on the hardwood floor, pulling the girl into her lap. Hermione knew that she shouldn't coddle her daughter, who was almost coming into her magical age, but Hermione couldn't try to deal with the fact that her daughter was frightened and without comfort.

'What happened in your nightmare, darling?' She asked, hugging the small girl to her.

'It was the same one, the one that started because James told me about the Death Eaters. There's a group of people in black robes and white, ghostly masks standing all around me in a circle, and they keep saying words I don't understand, while bright colourful lights flash in the sky. And then everything goes black and green and I can't see anything.' Rose's mouth turned into a pout as she remembered her dream.

'Oh, Rose.' Hermione said, squeezing her daughter in support. 'You should have told me that James was telling you stories. Harry, your dad, and I have all told James it's not alright that he frighten his cousins with his stories, and he should not have disobeyed us. Now come on, let's go have some tea.' It was late, and Hermione's internal clock was screaming at her, but she planned to put Dreamless Sleep in Rose's tea so that she could sleep calmly.

'No, mummy, I don't want tea. Can you play the piano for me? Like you used to?' Hermione was startled. Rose never asked her to play, and so she thought that she never wanted her to.

'Of course, darling, of course.' She helped her daughter stand, and hand in hand she led her down the stairs to the sitting room that held the piano, her light charm still following them. Hermione sat at the bench, pulling her daughter into her lap once more. She diminished the light charm, knowing the keys like the back of her hand, letting the quiet music drift through the darkness.

Hermione began to play soft melodies from Rose's favourite classical ballet, _The Nutcracker._ Although the piano was horribly out of tune, she knew that Rose loved Tchaikovsky, and that the theme would undoubtedly lull her daughter to sleep. Soon enough, Rose's breathing evened, and Hermione stopped playing. Picking the six year old up, she carried her up the stairs, and she didn't know how to feel about their encounter on this night.

_Perhaps this, too, is a dream, _she thought.

Hermione carefully placed Rose back in her bed, bringing the bed covers over her and kissing her above her brow. She knew she should leave and go back to bed, but she couldn't shake the feeling of uneasiness from her body.

After a few moments, she lifted the covers once more and climbed in beside her small daughter, tucking her arms around her, hugging her close. Hermione could feel her daughter cuddling closer to her, and she smiled. She fell asleep humming the _Nutcracker _theme to herself, her head resting above Rose's.


End file.
